Puff Pastry and the fear of failure

 

Lunch today, with a hand pie reheated too long--it got too browned
artichoke hearts, cherry tomatoes, asparagus, and hearts of palm
and, yes, that's a mince tart from neighbor Mary.

Puff pastry has intimidated me too long. I decided to stand up to it recently and sifted through my appalling recipe file for one I’d wanted to cook for a long time: chicken hand pies (every culture has some version of this pastry shell stuffed with a meat filling, from empanadas to pierogies to pasties—this recipe was from the New York Times). My first mistake: somehow I got it into my head that the recipe was for chicken salad hand pies. Not until I got to making the filling did I realize it was a cooked meat filling of chicken, mushrooms, onion, broth, crème fraiche, and seasonings.

But it wasn’t the filling that intimidated me. It was the puff pastry. (I’m also intimidated by phyllo.) I had been making tuna pasties using biscuit dough, and as one friend gently said, there was way too much bread and not enough of the tuna filling. And I’d been rolling out the biscuits, so why not roll out puff pastry?

It comes in a twelve-inch square, and the recipe says to roll it out to a fifteen-inch square on a lightly floured cutting board. Fifteen inches is pushing the limits of my work surface and besides the dough began to tear, but I think I got to about thirteen and a half. When the directions on the box say lightly floured, take it literally. I had been afraid of lots of flour that flew everywhere and was a hot mess to clean up. Not so, I floured the work surface and the rolling pin very lightly, and the dough did not stick at all.

Next up: use the tip of a knife to divide the dough into nine squares. After a couple of stabs at it, that too proved easy. So I moved ahead, put filling in each square (not the three-quarter cup recommended but more like half a cup), folding the ends to make a triangle, and crimping the edges with my fingers. I had hand pies! The last step was to brush with either melted butter or an egg wash of one egg mixed with one Tbsp. water. I prefer the egg wash. Bake at 375 for 20-30 minutes or until golden brown.

Chicken hand pies as they should look,
but not good photography. Sorry.

Here are two fillings I’ve used with other pastry shells in the past and will now make—soon!—using the puff pastry in my freezer.

Tuna pasties

1 7 oz. can albacore tuna, in water

1 cup shredded cheddar

¼ cup celery, diced finely

1 Tbsp. fresh parsley, chopped

1/3 cup sour cream

This may not make enough filling for all nine squares. Serve warm.

Coulibac

 Coulibac is the Russian version of a stuffed pastry shell, traditionally made with fresh salmon or sturgeon, rice or buckwheat, hard-boiled eggs, mushrooms, onions, and dill. My version is a shortcut, using canned salmon.

1 cup shredded carrots

½ cup finely chopped onion

½ cup finely chopped celery

3 Tbsp. olive oil

1 cup thinly sliced mushrooms

1/3 cup sour cream

2 Tbsp. lemon juice

½ tsp. dried dill

½ tsp. salt

¼ tsp. pepper

1 16 oz. can salmon, drained, bone and skin removed, meat flaked

Cook carrots, onion and celery in oil until tender. Add mushrooms and sauté until just limp. Remove pan from heat and add sour cream, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and dill. Gently stir in salmon.

My next challenge may be to make spanakopita with phyllo—or, hmmm, could I use puff patry?

Of cabbages and kings, frittatas and casseroles

Dinner at this house one night recently was a frittata fail. I’ve never made a frittata, but it’s just a crustless quiche, right? And it’s a popular dish now. I happened on to a recipe for a vegetable frittata and thought I’d use it as a guide. How hard could it be? Of course I had to adapt it—Christian and Jacob want meat with their meals (although not much red meat for Jacob) and the recipe had bell pepper, which doesn’t like me and I don’t like it. Jordan pointed out that we had a lb. of pork sausage in the freezer, and I have found that Christian will eat finely chopped spinach stirred into soup or something. Substitute cheddar for Parmesan and there was my frittata. Only I was way off on proportion of my substitutions. Instead of a half lb. of sausage, I used the whole lb., about 8 oz. spinach, and 6 oz. cheese. Stirred in 7 eggs—and it looked like a meat and spinach mixture. The eggs got lost. I dutifully baked and served it. Christian, with a skeptical look: “I’m used to more egg in a frittata.” It tasted okay—actually the flavor was good, but it was kind of like hash.

If frittatas are in vogue, casseroles are not. Facebook every once in a while pictures a casserole with the line, “Do people still eat this?” I often find myself defending tuna casserole (see last week's blog post). Somehow that makes me even more interested in retro foods. I associate casseroles with my childhood and then with the lean years when I was the single parent of four teenagers, but those are good memories. (I used to make gorilla casserole—the heading said you could feed ten gorillas at twelve cents apiece or something like that.) I still make casseroles. Here’s one I served to a guest recently:

Baked chicken salad casserole

3 c. chopped chicken

3 hard-boiled eggs

2 cans cream of mushroom soup

½ Tbsp. lemon juice

¼ c. mayonnaise

1 tsp. salt

2 c. chopped celery

½ tsp. black pepper

2 green onions, chopped fine

           Layer chicken and eggs in greased casserole; mix remaining ingredients and pour over eggs and chicken. Top with crushed potato chips. Bake at 375^o for about 30 minutes or until heated through. Enjoy!

 

 

Re-imagining the tuna casserole—and a bit of fiction

 

As you know if you read “Judy’s Stew” online, I’m taking a course on the culinary cozy mystery. Today’s assignment was to take one dish and describe it in terms of all five senses. It’s been along time since I shared my tuna casserole recipe—don’t groan, please—so I decided to focus on it. I thought for fun in this blog, I’d repeat that scene from Irene Keeps a Secret, the as yet unwritten third entry in my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries series. The recipe is also attached. Henny is preparing to fix tuna casserole for one segment of her TV show, “Recipes from My Mom’s Kitchen.”

As I unpacked the groceries I’d brought and slipped the pre-made casserole in the oven, Bob, the station manager, walked by. “Hey, Henny, watcha cooking today?”

“Tuna casserole,” I replied, my back to him as I worked. I knew what was coming next and mentally got ready for his objection. Bob’s idea of comfort food was probably a Big Mac.

“Tuna casserole!” He exploded. “Henny, we all had to eat enough of that as kids. Nobody eats it anymore. I told you, now that we’re national, you gotta ramp up your act.”

“I’m doing retro recipes, remember? Last week I even did a jellied salad—well, okay it was gazpacho—but it got raves. And national bought the show with the title, ‘Recipes from My Mom’s Kitchen.’ This is from my mom’s kitchen.”

He shrugged and walked on, but not before he muttered something about not blaming him if my ratings tanked.

I turned back to my groceries—a can of tuna, a can of mushroom soup, a pre-measured cup of wine, a small baggie with assorted herbs, some chopped celery and green onions. The pre-cooked noodles bothered me some. I hoped they wouldn’t clump when I tried to use them.

As I worked, memory took me back to Texas. On chilly nights, Dad lit a fire in the fireplace, and we ate dinner camped around it, sitting on the floor or a footstool or whatever was handy. I could almost see the flames and feel their warmth, hear them crackle, smell the piñon wood Dad insisted on. Tuna casserole was a family favorite for those Sunday night suppers by the fire, and as I stood there in that dingy TV studio I thought about Mom’s casserole—the crispness of the fried-onion topping against the creaminess of the noodles and tuna, with an occasional pop when you came to a green pea or the crunch of a bite of celery. I was suddenly hungry, and as I picked up the tuna and soup cans to open, I only hoped my casserole would taste as good as Mom’s. Patrick would be the taste tester tonight at supper, but, alas, no cheering fire.

Tuna casserole re-imagined

1 c. white wine

Assorted dried herbs—thyme, parsley, oregano, summer savory, tarragon, etc. (avoid Mexican spices like cumin); just throw the spices into the wine

1 small onion, chopped

½ c. celery, diced

2 Tbsp. butter

1 can cream of mushroom soup

1 7½-oz. can water-packed tuna, drained

1 c. carb filler of choice, cooked noodles or rice

½ c. green peas

1 small can French’s fried onion rings

Boil wine with herbs until the herbs turn black (about five minutes). Remove from heat. Meanwhile sauté onion and celery in butter. Add this to wine, along with soup. Add tuna, drained, or 1 cup diced chicken or turkey, the carb filler, and green peas for color. If there’s not enough liquid for your solid ingredients, add more wine. You can also vary the amount of meat and noodles or rice to suit your taste. Put into casserole dish and top with canned fried onion rings. A shallow dish means more of the casserole gets fried onion topping. Bake at 350° until bubbly and onions are brown.

Irene in Danger, second in the series, is now available from Amazon in paperback of Kindle editions: Irene in Danger: An Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery - Kindle edition by Alter, Judy. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

 

Lesson learned, this one about simplicity

The work area in my tiny kitchen

For five years now, I’ve been knocking my head against the wall, trying to demonstrate that I can cook anything with a hot plate and a toaster oven that I could with a full kitchen. Close, but no banana. The other night we had chicken thighs in a sauce, but we didn’t eat until eight because the adjustments I had to make took more time than I anticipated.

Recipes that call for an oven-proof skillet do me in. You can’t fit a skillet handle into a toaster oven. And my largest skillet won’t hold four chi
cken thighs, so I had to brown in batches. Then transfer to an oven dish. Bake, and transfer back to the skillet to make the sauce. I now banish all recipes calling for an ovenproof skillet. Those pork chops in my freezer? I baked them without browning. Mixed a can of mushroom soup, an envelope of onion soup mix, and about a half cup white wine. Seasoned the chops with salt and pepper and poured the soup mix evenly over them. Covered the dish tightly with foil and baked an hour at 350. Lots less work.

With simplicity in mind, I adapted a recipe for salmon bowl from the New York Times. It called for short-grain (sushi) rice and fresh salmon. I used good, canned salmon (wild caught) and long grain rice because that’s what I had. Recipe said to cook it in water flavored with rice vinegar, soy, and sugar. I did not season the cooking water. Drained the meat and chunked it. I thought the avocado would get lost and didn’t waste it. I had bought broccoli slaw, which was good and crisp, but the finished dish was too fussy with too much going on. Here’s what I’ll do another time:

Salmon bowl (serves four)

Four servings of rice (short- or long-grain)

Two 7 oz. cans wild-caught salmon

1/3 Persian cucumber, sliced thin

4 green onions, sliced on the diagonal

For the dressing

2 Tbsp. vegetable or canola oil

¼ c. soy sauce

3 Tbsp. white vinegar

Avocado (optional)

Make the dressing (you may want to double) and marinate cucumber and green onion in it while rice cooks. Cook the rice according to directions on the package, though you may want to rinse some starch off first. Let it cool a bit and divide among four bowls. Add chunks of salmon—try not to flake it. Top with dressing, cucumber, and green onion. Add avocado if you want. A nice, easy meal.

This reminds me of a dinner a good friend served several years ago, before bowls were so popular. At the time I thought it quite innovative. Two of us were her guests that night.

She put rice in a bowl and topped it with a layer of black beans and then chopped fresh vegetables—I’m not sure I remember what all, but probably tomatoes, cucumber, green onion, avocado for sure. She was about to finish the bowls off with shrimp, when both her guests howled about shrimp allergies. She poured salad dressing, probably homemade, over it, and served us a delicious, satisfying meal. If you don’t make your own dressing, I recommend Paul Newman’s Own Oil and Vinaigrette (not the balsamic vinaigrette).

So that’s my lesson for today: simplify. This started out to be a blog for cooks in tiny kitchens and sort of branched out from there, but at least for today, I’m back to the Idea that you can be a gourmet in a tiny kitchen.

Where I wash dishes
Large refrigerator is to the right
And that's my kitchen in two pictures

 

 

Sloppy Joe

In a previous life a long time ago, a friend gave me a cookbook titled, I think, With a Jug of Wine. The book is long since lost in down-sizing, and the only thing I saved is the recipe for Sloppy Joe. Okay, it isn’t called Sloppy Joe in the book. It’s called wine casserole. But the first time I made it, I thought, “This is Sloppy Joe.”

There are several theories about the origin of that sandwich, generally considered cheap restaurant or lunch counter fare. Some say it began with the loose meat sandwiches of the 1930s, thought to be a Maid-Rite invention, but another story is that the sandwich was developed in Sioux City, Iowa, by a cook named Joe. There’s even a suggestion the sandwich came from Cuba. In the 1940s, you could buy a Sloppy Joe sandwich for a dime, and in the 1960s big companies began to produce prepared ingredients. Remember canned Manwich?

I don’t care about the origin, but with cool weather approaching, I’m ready for a Sloppy Joe. It’s not real popular in my house, so I think I’ll just make a batch for myself. It’s something my kids grew up eating. Sometimes I’d serve it on toasted hamburger buns, but other times I’d just serve a bowl of it, like stew.

When my oldest daughter, then married a few years, called from Austin one night for the recipe, I sent it to her. She reported that Brandon, her husband, said, “It’s good, but it’s not Sloppy Joe.” Megan wrote, “I guess I’m the only one who grew up thinking red wine is an essential ingredient of Sloppy Joe.”

Note: this is a repeat. I’ve probably posted this several times, but it’s that good. And if you’re relatively knew to my posts, maybe it will be new to you. If not, maybe this will jog your memory that it’s Sloppy Joe weather. Here’s what I did:

Judy’s sloppy joe

1 lb. ground beef

1 15-oz. can of beans (any kind you want), rinsed and drained

½ c. chopped onion

½ c. diced celery

2 Tbsp. bacon drippings (If you can bring yourself to use it in this health-conscious age, use vegetable oil, but the bacon flavor really makes a difference; I keep a small jar of bacon drippings in my fridge.)

¼ c. ketchup

1½ Tbsp. Worcestershire

Dash of Tabasco

1 tsp. salt

⅛ tsp. pepper

¼ tsp. oregano

¼ c. dry red wine

1 Tbsp. A-1 sauce (If I don’t have this, omit it; I can never tell the difference.)

Cook onion and celery in bacon drippings. Add beef and brown. Add remaining ingredients and simmer 20 to 30 minutes. Serve in buns (there’s that loose meat connection) or in bowls. Good accompanied by chips and/or a green salad.

 

How to bake an egg--and like it!

 

Ready to eat

I was this many years old before I learned how to bake and enjoy an egg for supper. I don’t remember my mom ever baking eggs, so that’s probably why I didn’t. I was only so-so at poaching (seemed to take forever and half the time I fished them out too soon, even though I like them fairly runny) and frying (I couldn’t do over easy without breaking the yolk). But one night I ran across simple directions for baked egg and thought I’d try it. Now a baked egg is one of my favorite “you’re on your own” suppers. Here’s what I did:

Simple baked egg

½ slice good sourdough bread

1 large egg

Salt and pepper

1 tsp. cream or milk

Grease a small ramekin well. Toast sourdough bread and butter both sides (toasting makes it crisper as it soaks up the egg). Shape toast into ramekin until it forms a lining on bottom and sides of the dish. Carefully break egg into the center of the ramekin, being sure to keep the yolk whole. Add salt and pepper and pour cream or milk over egg to keep it from drying out.

In process
note hole in center

Bake at 350° for 12-15 minutes, until yolk is set but still runny.

That’s the straightforward version, but once I saw how easy that was, I decided to fancy it up a bit. Fry a strip of bacon, crumble and let it drain a paper towel, while you shape the toast. Then add a bit of cooked, chopped spinach and a nice bit of grated cheddar. Dot with butter but leave a hole in the middle for the egg. Add the egg and cream and bake as above. Serve garnished with bacon. Without the bacon, you might garnish it with paprika or scattered microgreens.

Ready for the oven

A baked egg can even help you use leftovers—diced ham or chicken, sausage, various cheeses, maybe corn. It’s pretty much up to individual taste. Today I was contemplating leftovers from a full dinner last night—roast chicken breast, mashed potatoes, and fresh broccoli. I decided to bake an egg, using the potatoes and broccoli and the grated cheddar left from chili night a couple of nights ago. I was going to garnish with microgreens, but I learned a lesson about them—they do not keep. So I sprinkled paprika and had myself a good lunch.

A gourmet side note: Recently I did something I had done in a long time. I had enough leftover chicken to make chicken salad, but instead of dicing it, I whirred it in the food processor until it was flaked. Then I dressed it with salt and pepper, lemon juice, and just enough mayonnaise and sour cream to bind but not enough to make it soupy. The flaked meat gives the salad a whole different texture and flavor. I used to do the same thing with ham and tuna. I think I was being lazy about getting the processor out, but no more. A neighbor once said, doesn’t it just make it mush? The answer is no—it makes dry flakes (drain canned tuna, of course.)

Gourmet side note #2: I’ve discovered a web site I really like. It’s called Kitchn. The site features cooking and cleaning hints and ideas along with new products, but it’s the recipes I really like. The producers apparently have a deal with Aldi and Trader Joe, because they frequently feature their products, both to buy and to include in recipes; Costco, occasionally. Kitchn is now one of those emails I read every morning.

 

 

It’s chili weather!

 

When evenings start to get just a little cool my first thought is, “It’s chili weather!”

I was a northerner the first twenty-some years of my life, and chili as I knew it can from a can. I don’t think we even knew about Wolf brand, the Texas king of canned chilis. The great, late Frank Tolbert, chili-head extraordinaire and organizer of the first Tolbert Chili Cook-off which spawned cook-offs across the nation, even recommended Wolf Brand. There’s an entire book about the brand, and lots of stories, like the woman who took the slogan “Just heat and eat” literally and put an unopened can on the stove burner. When it exploded, the company paid for the restoration of her kitchen. Or the store in South Texas that stocked the chili with the dog food because the staff didn’t speak English and saw the wolf on the label. And every Texan can still hear those sonorous tones, “Neighbor, how long has it been since you had a big, thick, steaming bowl of Wolf Brand Chili?”

Wolf Brand wasn’t the only thing I learned when I did the research for a book titled Texas is Chili Country. There’s the history--Mexicans are disdainful of chili and adamant that it did not come from their country. In truth, the dish originated around the cousie’s campfire in cattle camps and on drives. The cook used what was handy—beef and herbs or spices found on the prairie. The tomatoes came later.

Along with the history, I found how many different dishes fell under the umbrella label of chili. Beans or no beans? Vegetables? Straightforward chili powder or an array of spices? Cubed steak? Ground beef? Vegan? Turkey or chicken? Venison makes a great pot of chili, although the girls in my family uniformly objected to the texture. You can make chili in various colors—verde, or green, or white with chicken or turkey.

A friend recently wrote me that years ago when she moved to Houston the second day she was there, a Texan shot a bartender because the latter had put beans in his chili. All I could reply was that Texans are particular about their chili. One of my neighbors is a chili purist and a goes to the mother of chili cook-offs at Terlingua every year. We had a mini-cook-off in my kitchen one night. His chili was pieces of beef floating in a spicy, thin red sauce. Mine, he said disparagingly, was a good meat-and-bean stew, but it was not chili. As a northern transplant, now of some fifty-five years, I admit my chili is mild and tentative, but it is hearty, easy, and soul-warming. For those who like beans and want their chili on the mild side, here’s what I did.

Judy’s Mild and Tentative Chili

1 lb. ground beef

1 large onion, chopped

2 large cloves garlic, chopped

Enough oil to sauté onion, garlic, and beef

1 8-oz. can tomato sauce

1 cup beer, or more if it gets too thick

4 tsp. chili powder or to taste

½ tsp. Tabasco

2 tsp. salt

2 c. canned beans, rinsed and drained

Brown onion and garlic; add hamburger and cook until all pink is gone.

Add everything else except beans and simmer for 60 to 90 minutes. Stir occasionally, and add more beer as needed (you’ve got that open warm beer anyway). Taste and add more chili powder as needed. Add beans and heat just before serving.

A word about beans: these days I prefer pinto beans, but I used to use Ranch brand, rinsing off the sauce. Some people like black beans, which work perfectly well.

Many people, Texans and otherwise, crumbly saltines into their chili. My family likes to top it with chopped purple onion and grated cheddar. Another new innovation: this fall I think I’ll pickle the onions. Just slice thinly, separate into rings, pack in a jar, and cover with a mixture of ½ vinegar (either cider or red wine) and ½ water. Let marinate in refrigerator at least overnight.

Sorry to be so commercial, but I can't resist adding a buy link. Read all about the history, the first ever chili cookoff, the later battle between festivals, and recipes galore. A fun book to research and write. Hope you find it fun to prowl through.

 

Amazon: Texas Is Chili Country: A Brief History with Recipes: Alter, Judy: 9780896729469: Amazon.com: Books